


Exile

by escrevendo



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Friends, Drama & Romance, Emotional Roller Coaster, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Lost Love, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Revenge, Sexual Tension, more angst than fluff tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27437860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escrevendo/pseuds/escrevendo
Summary: She can’t hear him, but she can tell he’s awake, somewhere in this massive house. Can tell he spends this entire time up just like her, alone and still, maybe with a glass of whiskey in hand. It’s a lonely feeling, Charlie realizes, to think of someone you love being alone.She doesn’t know when loneliness became the only thing she shares with Tommy.1924. Five years after the war that changed everything, and three years after Charlotte left for London in an attempt to move on with her life. Her whole world is rocked upside down when Thomas Shelby, her former flame and the man who’s been haunting all of her what-ifs since the moment she left, pays her an unexpected visit — and he makes her an offer she can’t refuse.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first Peaky Blinders fanfiction and I really hope you guys enjoy it. I really don't have a plan for this so more tags and warnings will be added as the story progresses. I don't follow the show's timeline too strictly for this, but I'd say it's set in the gap between season 3 and season 4, although with some slight divergences to canon; like no rivalry between the Shelby family, and Tommy and Grace met a few years later than they did on the show. This fic is post-Grace's death though.
> 
> Again I really hope you enjoy it, and I would love to know what you think! Reviews and feedback are always very appreciated <3

It’s only mid-October, but Charlotte can already tell the oncoming winter is going to be a rough one. The cold morning hair is relentless, and even the coat wrapped around her frame doesn’t seem to be enough to stop a shiver from running down her body as the door opens. The sign by the door still reads _closed_ ; but, this early, it can only be the owner.

“Morning, Mrs. Lacroix.”

“Good morning, Charlie,” the older woman calls out, her voice way too cheerful for seven-thirty in the morning.

She resumes her work, going around the shop and watering any flowers that need it. They’re happy, well-kept things that Mrs. Lacroix tends to like they’re her children. Some of them even have names; like the beautiful orchids on display at the front. There’s Angelina and Anna by the center, surrounded by others Charlie can’t recall, and right by the end of the row—

“Portia is about to blossom, huh?”

Of course, _Portia_ — the orchid that’s stuck in its bud form, not yet to open, but Mrs. Lacroix has taken it in as a favorite.

“Any time now,” Charlie replies.

“She’s gonna be the prettiest out of all of them, when she blooms,” Mrs. Lacroix says for what must be the seventh time this week, and it’s only Tuesday. But the smile on her lips is so bright and full of pride, and Charlie feels obligated to smile if only to entertain her.

“What makes you think that?”

“I can tell, dear. Well-loved flowers always turn out the prettiest. I’ll put her right in the center, so she’s the first thing the costumers see when they walk in.” She runs a fingertip along the edges of the bud. “Would you like some tea before we open, honey?”

It takes a second for Charlie to realize she’s talking to her and not to the orchid. It wouldn’t be the first time she catches the woman talking to them as if they’re people. She nods in response.

“Tea would be lovely.”

It’s an uneventful day, like most days. Talking to costumers, making flower arrangements, tending to the plants. Charlie likes the routine. It’s what’s kept her grounded in the past few years.

It’s twenty minutes before the end of her shift when the door opens one more time with the soft ring of the bell on top. She pauses her task of sweeping the floors, setting the broom aside.

“Welcome to Lacroix Botanical, how can I help y—?”

Her voice dies out in her throat as she takes in the sight of him. He still looks the same, save for the few worry lines and wrinkles that have formed over the years, the dark circles around his bright blue eyes even deeper than she remembers. He removes his hat, his hair dark and a bit unruly underneath.

“Tommy,” she says, her voice betraying her when it cracks on the last syllable.

He doesn’t smile, but she catches a glimmer of something in his eyes. Familiarity, perhaps. Warmth.

“Charlotte. It’s been a while.”

His voice— god, she hasn’t heard it in way too long. She’d forced herself not to think about it all these years, not to recall it; in hopes that, if she erased it from her mind, maybe the rest of him would slowly cease to exist, as well.

And yet here he is. Thomas Shelby, in the fucking flesh.

She searches for words — _any_ words — inside her brain, but comes out short. She’s been silent for too long, standing there staring at him like an idiot. What the hell is she supposed to say, anyway? Why is he here? She draws in a deep breath, in an attempt to get a grip.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

His eyes study her for a brief moment, although much softer than her confused stare.

“I need to talk to you,” he says.

She makes a quick gesture to the shop around them. “I’m working, Tom.”

“It’s important.”

“What’s so important that you couldn’t tell me over the phone?”

“If I had called, would you’ve answered?”

A noise to her left startles her; Mrs. Lacroix, resuming her sweeping, clearly trying to pretend she’s not eavesdropping on the conversation. That woman can never resist sticking her nose into everyone else’s affairs.

Charlie throws her a nervous glance before she moves her attention back to Tommy. “I leave in fifteen minutes. Just wait for me outside, okay?”

“Charlie, dear,” Mrs. Lacroix taps her on the shoulder, “have you shown this gentleman our orchids?”

“He’s not interested.”

“I would love to see them,” Tommy intervenes, much to Charlie’s dismay.

“Great! I’ll take over from here. You can clock out a little earlier if you’d like, honey.”

Charlie is relieved to leave them alone, moving to the back of the shop to gather her things. She lingers for as long as she can, listening as Mrs. Lacroix rambles to Tommy about various types of flowers, dreading the moment she’ll have to come out. Maybe if she stays back here for long enough, Tommy will give up and leave.

She dismisses the idea as soon as she comes up with it, grabbing her coat and bag as she comes back out. Tommy gives Mrs. Lacroix one last thank you before they leave, and Charlie wonders if she’ll be the next topic of gossip between Mrs. Lacroix and her friends: Charlotte Jones, leaving the shop with an unknown, handsome man.

“Did she show you Portia?” Charlie asks, if only to fill in the silence.

“The orchid that hasn’t bloomed yet?” The corner of his mouth twitches into a tiny, barely-there smile. “It’s all she talked about.”

She finds herself mirroring his smile, some of the tension lifted off her shoulders. She slips inside her coat, gloved hands wrapping it tight around herself.

“You still hate the cold?” Tommy asks.

She nods. Her smile vanishes quickly, and she stares straight ahead, avoiding his gaze that she knows is on her.

Silence builds up around them one more time until it’s almost loud, unavoidable. She’s felt a myriad of emotions around Tommy, but _awkward_ — that’s a first. There’s never been room for awkwardness for them, not when there hadn’t been a boundary in the world the two couldn’t overstep with each other, when Tommy’s presence felt more like family than family ever did.

But that was then. Now, things are different.

“I was thinking we could get a drink,” Tommy suggests. “Then I’ll get out of your hair.”

Charlie doesn’t blink as she nods again, a single jerk of her head.

“ _One_ drink,” she says. “There’s a bar a few blocks from here.”

“Lead the way.”

* * *

“He’ll have a whiskey, dry. Just beer for me. Thank you.”

The order just escapes from her lips before she’s even aware of it. She feels Tommy’s eyes on her again, but they’re gone as fast as they’d come.

“The flower shop.” Tommy brings a cigarette to his lips. He offers her the pack, but she shakes her head. “You been working there for a long time?”

“About two years.” It’s so foreign, to hear Tommy Shelby trying to make small talk. A few years ago, Charlie would’ve teased him for it. Now, all she does is reach for her drink as the bartender sets it down over the table.

“You look good, Charlotte.”

It sounds stiff, like they’re strangers, like this is some kind of social experiment. Like there’s never been a time where they were each other’s ride or die, like they hadn’t been inseparable since they were children. Like all of those years have been erased, replaced with this: this unease, this silence between them.

“Why are you here, Tom?” she asks. No amount of small talk about work or the weather will distract her; not when she hadn’t expected to ever see him again, or at least not so soon.

He takes a sip of his drink, stalling.

“Did someone die?” He opens his mouth to respond, but Charlie cuts him off. “Did my dad die?”

“No. No one died.” He sets his glass down. “Your dad’s fine. He asks about you, sometimes.”

“Yeah, he always looks for me when he needs money. It’s nothing new.” She shifts on her seat, stares at the beer glass in front of her just so she has something to look at that isn’t him. Her thumb strokes over the smooth curve of the handle.

“I came here to talk to you about Benjamin Clarke,” Tommy says. “You remember him?”

Her eyes snap to meet his in a fraction of a second. The name alone brings a shiver down her spine, a tremor to her hands that makes Charlie’s grasp on the glass dangerously tighter.

“You mean my bastard step-father who killed my mother and almost killed me? It does ring a tiny bell.” Charlie leans forward, elbows on the wooden table, her full attention on Tommy now. “What about him?”

“We found him, Charlie. He’s been working with a German gang. We’ve been at war with them for some time now.” Tommy flicks his cigarette ash into the ashtray between them. “We think he ran off to Germany to escape prison, after your mom.”

“He had family in Germany,” Charlie recalls. “On his mom’s side.”

Tommy nods. “We had a problem with them a few months back. Trying to smuggle firearms through their territory. It escalated, so I had my men look them up, find out more information. And Benjamin Clarke’s name was right there.”

She feels dizzy, and she knows it has nothing to do with the drink in front of her. It’s almost too much information to take in at once. First there’s Tommy — showing up without as much as a warning, rocking the entire world from beneath her feet with no effort at all. And now Ben Clarke. For decades, she’d waited for the day Tommy would find him, until she convinced herself it would never come. That it would remain a fantasy, only to exist in the darkest parts of her imagination.

And now that the day has come, she doesn’t know how to react.

“Why are you telling me this? I’m not a Peaky Blinder anymore.”

Tommy sets his still lit cigarette over the ashtray so his attention is fully on her. There’s something about his eyes that always make Charlotte feel as if there’s a spotlight over her head when he looks at her; the icy blue of his irises, his expression always so earnest and unwavering. Like he’s studying her. Like he’s _really_ listening.

The sheer intensity of it almost makes her squirm.

“We’re gonna get him, Charlotte. I always told you I was gonna get him for you, and I will,” he says. “And I thought you’d want to be there when it happens.”

The words hit her like a physical ache, so hard and sudden it makes her dazed. Is that something she wants? She remembers all of those nights with Tommy way too well, all the promises he made to get revenge on her behalf. She knows he meant every word, even back then. But they were just kids; too young to fully understand the gravity of what they were wishing for.

She takes a long swig of her beer. Maybe she should’ve ordered something stronger.

Before she’s even aware of it, she’s made a decision.

“I want to be the one to do it.”

It’s not an easy feat to surprise Tommy. He’s a master of masking his emotions, but Charlie has known him for long enough to pick up on the tiniest hints of it — the way his stance changes ever so slightly, the slight twitch of his eye, the way he purses his lips as if in hesitation, thinking about what to say.

“Charlie, killing a man—” He lowers his voice, reaching for his glass. “It’s not as easy as it seems.”

She chuckles, but it’s devoid of humor.

“How hard can it be? You do it all the time.”

Tommy’s always been protective of her; and while she used to find it endearing, it feels condescending now. Does he really think she’s not capable of such a thing? After everything she was put through? It feels almost offending.

“It was _my_ mother he killed, wasn’t it?” She sets the glass down onto the table so hard some of the beer spills out. “He murdered her right in front of me. And you know what happened after. Don’t you think I fucking earned this, Thomas?”

He doesn’t respond, eyes not leaving hers for one second. Some of the other patrons look over at the way her voice rises, but Charlie barely notices them.

“It has to be me,” she decides. She finishes the rest of her beer with one last gulp. “Keep me updated. I have to go home.”

His long forgotten cigarette burns out on the ashtray, and Tommy reaches to put it out.

“It’s still early. We could go have some dinner.”

The look she throws his way is not a glare, but something close to it. “No.”

“Movie?”

“I’m engaged, Tommy.”

She removes her left glove, exposing the diamond ring on her finger — small and modest, but beautiful all the same, contrasting with the warm brown of her skin.

Tommy falters a little, and she can tell she’s caught him off guard. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, no words actually making it out for a long beat. To an outsider, to someone who doesn’t know him, maybe he would look unaffected. But Charlotte can see the hurt in his face clear as day, like he’s been punched in the face.

No amount of imagining and dreaming about this moment would’ve prepared her for that look.

“Congratulations.”

She waits for the victory and triumph she’d expected to feel. It never comes.

Why is it guilt that she feels instead? It’s not like she owes him anything. Whatever it is that existed between them, it’s been gone for three years. They’ve never even been an official couple; a few moments of heated passion and words of devotion whispered between the two, but it didn’t last.

“Thanks.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I have to get back home.”

She wonders what would happen if she told her fifteen year old self about this moment. About the deeply concealed, yet undeniable pain between them. That she’s the one who left him all those years ago, and now they’ve both gone their separate ways and life went on without him. Young Charlotte would never understand. To her, being away from Tommy is never something she’d choose.

“See you around, Tommy.”

With that, she slides her glove back on, and leaves.

* * *

When she arrives home, it’s started drizzling outside. She damns herself for forgetting to grab her hat on the way to the shop in the morning, her hair already a mess of dark curls around her face. It takes hours to get them to relax into soft waves, and she knows Mrs. Lacroix will give her an earful if she shows up to work looking like this.

Her mind, however, is elsewhere. It’s on the warm summer rain of Small Heath, riding horses at dusk. Tommy by her side, because he was always by her side, like there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

She’s spent the past three years trying to convince herself she doesn’t miss him. That she has everything she’s ever needed now. One hour with Tommy, and he’s managed to destroy everything she’s worked so hard to build, her tentative playhouse of a life. 

She’s tried so hard to forget Tommy. She tried to protect herself in the only way she could; by putting distance between the two of them and letting time heal the rest. And now he’s back, like he never left. Digging his perfect hands in and reopening all of Charlie’s scars, bringing all of that pain and heartbreak between them up again, just by inviting himself back into her life.

“Hey, love.”

Alfred’s voice pulls her back to Earth like a lifeline.

Perhaps there’s something in Charlie’s eyes that looks haunted, because Alfred is quick to stand up from his spot on the table when he catches a good look at her face. He reaches for her hand, his blond, nearly invisible brows frowning in concern.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “You didn’t come home after your shift. I was worried.”

She forces a smile, but it’s strained. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just Mrs. Lacroix needed me for a little while longer at the shop, and— you know how that woman is.”

He helps her remove her coat, following her into their shared bedroom. Much like the rest of the house, it’s not extravagant, but still beautiful in its modest way. Charlie is silent as she reaches inside the wardrobe for more comfortable clothes, and she can feel Alfred’s eyes following her, even as she avoids them.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” he asks. “You’re shaking.”

It’s only then that she notices he’s right; her shoulders tremble helplessly, like she’s cold. She sets her jaw and slides into a warmer dress, trying to force her body into staying still.

“Yeah, I just— I’m just tired.”

“You work too hard,” Alfred says. “You know you don’t need that job.”

“I like to keep myself busy. You know that.”

“My future wife shouldn’t have to work. I’ve got enough for both of us. You’ll already have your obligations as a wife to fulfill; why burden yourself with more work?”

She sighs, doesn’t respond. They’ve had this conversation a dozen times before, never getting to an agreement by the end, and Charlie doesn’t have the energy to go through it one more time. Maybe he’s right, and she should’ve left her job at the flower shop a long time ago. But she’ll surely miss her independence. Staying home cooking and cleaning all day sounds like a sure way to drive her insane.

“You hungry?” she says. “I’ll make us some dinner.”

He kisses her on the cheek before she goes to the kitchen, and it makes a warm smile spread through her lips. She loves him. Maybe not with all her heart, and maybe not nearly as much as she once loved Tommy, but he’s good to her. And he loves her right back.

It has to be enough.

* * *

Long after Alfred’s fallen asleep, Charlie drags herself out of bed.

She’s the most careful and silent she’s ever managed to be as she opens the second drawer of her dressing table. Under piles of hair combs and compact powder and mascara, she finds an old notebook.

She only dares to open it when she’s in the living room, away from her fiancé’s gaze. _Dear Thomas Shelby_ is the entry of nearly every page, written in her messy cursive handwriting. It’s something she started doing soon after she left Birmingham — writing letters she’ll never send to people she’s had problems with.

There are twenty seven letters to Tommy. She hasn’t been able to bring herself to write one for her dad yet.

She skims through some of the old letters. Some are deep and sentimental; others are angry, hurt, sappy, romantic, heartbroken. Most are embarrassing enough that she’ll never, ever send to him. She never throws them away, either. Only keeps the notebook hidden deep inside her drawer, and writes a new one when the urge strikes her.

She turns on a new page, and scribbles a sentence with her pen. _Dear Thomas Shelby._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was _so_ happy to see you guys seemed to like the first chapter! I'm honestly having so much fun writing this fic. As usual any and all comments are more than appreciated, I would love to hear what you think! Enjoy the angst 💕

It’s snowing outside.

Her eyes are closed shut, hands pressed against her ears, futilely trying to block out the sounds — things being thrown, the yelling, the crying. A baby crying. Charlie’s crying too, but it’s quiet, biting her tongue to keep the sobs in even as they wrack her small frame.

Even though she’s grown used to this sort of thing, something’s different this time. Her mother’s screams sound different than usual; more urgent, desperate. It’s what leads her to open the door and walk towards them, despite the fear, the near-paralyzing _terror_ building up in her chest.

The living room is a mess of broken glass and furniture tossed all around. One of the armchairs is fallen on the ground, and the vase of Charlie’s favorite tulips is broken by her feet, the flowers still mostly sticking together. She follows the debris into the kitchen, the screams getting louder and louder.

A scream of her own escapes Charlie’s lips at the sight.

There’s blood — a lot of it, not just Mom’s usual split lip and bloody nose. It’s soaking through her clothes, staining them red when Mr. Clarke drives the kitchen knife into her body one more time and she falls to her knees. He towers above her, always so much taller, so much scarier. Her mother’s blood stains his hands, and, when his eyes meet Charlie’s, she feels frozen in place.

“Charlie,” comes her mother’s voice, somehow still strong despite her heavy breaths. “Run!”

Somewhere in London, Charlotte wakes up with the sound of a baby crying still ringing in her ears.

She bolts upright, breathing in a choked breath. Her heart pounds against her chest so hard she can feel it in her throat, and it takes a full minute for her to somewhat regain her breath. Alfred stirs in his spot next to her on the bed, but doesn’t wake up.

She glances at the clock on the wall. Five o’clock in the morning.

Well, that had been a satisfying two hours of sleep.

Charlie settles back into bed, tries to fall back asleep to the soft rise and fall of Alfred’s breath. But instead she lies awake, restless, staring up at the ceiling that she can’t see but knows is there. Somewhere in the back of her mind, along with all the thoughts she tries to push away, she wonders if Tommy’s awake, too. He’s always had trouble sleeping after the war.

She hates herself for hoping that he’s wide awake, just like she is. That he’s thinking of her right now. That he wishes she was there with him, just like she does.

Alfred snores softly by her side, interrupting her thoughts. Probably for the best.

She gets up as the first rays of sunlight start to light up the room.

* * *

Work doesn’t feel much more productive. Charlie’s mind is miles away, and she only feels half-awake as she tries to complete her tasks. She nearly knocks over at least two vases, pours tea all over Mrs. Lacroix’s table cloth, and spends most of her day spacing out against her will. Two hours before the end of her shift, Mrs. Lacroix suggests that she comes home earlier and gets some rest.

Instead, she heads to an old friend’s. She stands on the porch after knocking on the door, hands buried inside her pockets.

“Charlie!” Ada’s soft voice calls out. “God, I haven’t seen you in such a long time.”

Charlie allows Ada to pull her into a soft hug. She smiles, and, for the first time today, it’s a genuine one.

“How have you been, Ada?”

“Good! Come on in; Karl’s gonna be so happy to see you.”

Out of all the Shelby siblings, Ada is the only one Charlie still has somewhat consistent contact with, their bond strengthened after Ada had moved to London with her now-late husband and son. Despite both of them being busy with their lives, they’d always make some time to meet each other for tea or walks at the park. However, Charlie had grown distant after her engagement to Alfred. It wasn’t intentional, but with the preparations for the wedding as well as most of her focus into her relationship, it didn’t leave her much free time for friends or a social life.

Karl greets her with a hug and a big smile, quickly pulling her by the hand to show her the drawings he’d made out of chalk. Charlie beams down at them like he’d just shown her the Mona Lisa rather than a mess of shapes that, according to him, are supposed to be his mom.

“That’s an interesting hat she’s wearing,” Charlie comments.

“It’s not a hat, it’s her nose!” Karl says, and Charlie breathes a laugh in amusement.

“Okay, I’m gonna borrow Charlie here for a little bit,” Ada says to her son, much to his dismay. “Why don’t you draw us something while Mommy and Charlie talk, sweetie?”

He seems satisfied enough with that, and Charlie follows Ada into the living room. Last time she’d seen her, the woman lived in a house much smaller and more modest than this one, and Charlie can’t help but marvel at it as they make their way deeper into it. They take a seat on the couch.

“What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Sorry I didn’t call, I just— I could really use some company,” Charlie gives her a smile, but it’s sad around the edges. As much as she tries to pretend like everything is fine, her body language gives her away rather quickly; she can tell it does by the way Ada arches an eyebrow at her. “Just thought we could catch up.”

Ada’s smile is soft, and it already makes Charlie feel better, even if just a little bit.

“How’s Alfred doing?” she asks. “His family still giving you a hard time?”

She chuckles dryly. “Tell me about it.”

“I thought they’d give you a break, this close to the wedding.”

“They’re trying, I guess. They had us over the other week.” Charlie absentmindedly pulls one of the pillows into her lap, fingers toying with a loose thread on the fabric. “His little brother wanted to show me his new dog.”

Ada tilts her head. “Dogs are nice.”

“Then I heard his mother whisper not so quietly to her husband about how she’d thought the dog would be the only stray mutt joining them for brunch.”

Ada scoffs, although it’s filled with incredulity rather than any actual humor. “Jesus.”

“Yeah.” She shrugs as if so say no big deal, even though it is very much a big deal. “Not that I didn’t expect that. I mean, a black man marrying a white woman is bad enough, but the other way around? They must think their son is going mad.”

“Narrow-minded bastards. You don’t deserve to be treated like that.”

Charlie shrugs again, gaze moving down to her hands. She wouldn’t know how to explain that the problem is not just Alfred’s family; it’s the way he never stands up to her even when he sees it happening, it’s the fact that she’s never in her life felt like part of any family at all, not really. She was only a child when her parents had broken off their relationship, due to her mother’s affair with the man that would become her new husband, and later her killer. It’s needless to say Benjamin Clarke never accepted his wife’s mixed child like his own. Her dad had been too busy drowning his sorrows in alcohol to give her the care she needed.

Then the Shelby family had come along. Even though she’d been closer to Tommy, they’d all welcomed her in with open arms. For years, Charlie finally felt like she belonged. Until she didn’t.

“It’s not just that, is it?” Ada’s voice brings her back from her thoughts. “Is it Tommy? Did he meet with you?”

Her chin trembles with all the emotions that bubble up to the surface, faster and harder than she’s ready for.

“I can’t—” She draws in a sharp breath, trying to stop her voice from faltering. “Please, let’s just— let’s just not talk about him right now. Okay?”

Ada doesn’t push, only nods slowly in agreement. She stands up from her spot.

“Wait here. I’ll get us some tea.”

* * *

“God, you still remember that?”

“Do you really think I would forget the day you talked me into setting a bird free in a church?”

A few hours have passed, and they’re both laughing like their previous conversation never existed. They shifted the conversation into lighter topics; the funny way Karl still mispronounces some words, Mrs. Lacroix’s obsession with her flowers, fond childhood memories. Like that of the prank they’d pulled on the local church during a gloomy Sunday morning, when Charlie was twelve; Ada a few years younger.

“It went straight for the holy water,” Charlie recalls, her cheeks hurting from laughing so hard. 

“It scared the crap out of everyone. One of the nuns fainted, remember?”

Needless to say, communion had been cancelled that day. The more they recall, the looser Charlie feels, fondness and nostalgia settling into her chest and replacing the bad feelings that had occupied it earlier.

“I still can’t believe we got away with that,” Charlie says.

Ada pauses for a moment. “Tommy never told you? He took the blame for us that day.”

The mention of him doesn’t provoke the same reaction from earlier, but her smile still falters. “Did he?”

“Yeah. They were mad, but they let him go quite easy. Boys will be boys, I guess.”

They’re silent for a few moments, catching their breaths. Recalling old memories had worked to take her mind off things, and Charlie’s grateful for getting to take a break from replaying yesterday’s events over and over. She feels refreshed now, brave enough to be the one to breach the subject.

“Did Tommy tell you? About what’s going on?”

Ada nods. “Are you kidding me? All he does since he got here is to talk about Benjamin Clarke.”

A half-smile spreads across Charlie’s lips.

“It was Tommy’s thing. _Our_ thing,” she corrects herself. “Some nights, we’d get together and talk about how we would kill Clarke, if we ever had the opportunity. Tommy said he’d set fire to him, I’d say I’d chop him up into pieces. Sometimes we’d go back and forth for hours.” She talks about it as if it’s not a morbid topic, as if it’s just a fun, innocent game between children. “We were just kids. We didn’t really mean it.”

“Oh, he meant it,” Ada says, like there’s not a doubt in her mind. “What did Alfred have to say about all of this?”

Charlie doesn’t respond for a long moment, teeth nipping on her bottom lip.

“I… kind of didn’t tell him yet.” She shifts on her spot, her once relaxed posture growing tense again. “I didn’t tell him about Clarke at all.”

Ada frowns. “At all? You didn’t tell him about what happened that night?”

“It’s not easy to talk about.”

“I’m sure it isn’t, but Jesus, Charlie. You’re _marrying_ him; don’t you think he should know something this important?” 

“I just didn’t know how to tell him. Didn’t wanna talk about it. So I said my mom fell ill and died when I was a child.”

Ada looks at her like she’s just said something completely absurd. “What about your sister?”

Charlie grits her teeth so hard her jaw pops, avoiding Ada’s gaze.

“I didn’t tell him I had a sister.”

Thankfully, Ada doesn’t say anything in response, staring at another corner of the living room.

“Don’t tell Tommy about this, okay?” Charlie asks. She’s not sure why, exactly. Maybe she just doesn’t want him to think she doesn’t trust her fiancé, even if she hadn’t been able to confide in him with this. “He doesn’t need any more reasons to be cocky.”

There’s a knock on the door, and Ada stands to answer it. “Speak of the devil.”

Sure enough, Tommy is on the other side of the door when she opens it. He makes his way inside, handsome as he had been the day before, and Charlie feels her heart speed up inside her chest.

He takes sight of her sitting on the couch, their eyes meeting for a brief second.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says. “I just need to have a quick word with my sister.”

“It’s alright,” Charlie replies, standing up from her spot. “You guys talk. I’ll make Karl some company.”

She moves away to give the two some privacy, letting Karl show her his favorite toys. When Tommy announces that he’s leaving, she comes back towards them.

“I should go too. It’s getting late.” It’s starting to get dark outside, the sky a darkening purple with dusk. “Can you give me a ride?”

The question seems to surprise both Tommy and Ada. Tommy recovers faster.

“Sure. Come on, then.”

She says her goodbyes to Ada and Karl before following Tommy out of the house. He opens the door to the car for her, and she hops onto the passenger seat.

They go through the first few minutes of the drive mostly in silence save for the directions Charlie gives him. The closer they get to home, the more she realizes she wants to stay right here, to linger inside this car for as long as she can.

“Do you wanna get a drink?”

Tommy looks over at her, his expression unreadable. He nods.

They stop at a local pub, but they end up buying a bottle of whiskey and getting back to the car, parked in a mostly empty street. He takes his first swig and passes the bottle over to her. Charlie settles down beside him, their shoulders so close to touching but she won’t allow them to. She doesn’t trust herself, not with alcohol and Tommy’s body so close to hers in the cramped car.

“Remember how we used to do this all the time?” she asks. “When we’d sneak out of home to get wasted on the streets?”

It makes her feel like a teenager again, remembering it as if it had happened yesterday; the two of them hiding out together and drinking straight from the bottle until late at night, choking on the taste of alcohol, holding onto each other’s arms for support as they stumbled back home.

Tommy agrees with his head. “This is much better than the cheap whiskey we used to steal from your dad, though.”

“Much better.” She watches as he gulps down the amber liquid effortlessly. “You still drink it like it’s water, I see. I thought you were supposed to savor it.”

“I _am_ savoring it.” He holds the bottle in her direction, licking his lips clean of whiskey. She forces herself to look away.

Despite her remarks, she takes a big swig herself, not bothering to sip or go slow considering her empty stomach. She hadn’t been able to eat much at all today. Tommy raises his eyebrows ever so slightly. 

“So do you, apparently. I’m impressed. You used to barely be able to swallow down beer.”

Charlie chuckles. “Yeah, the past few years have basically been a huge ‘screw you, liver.’”

She looks down when she feels Tommy’s eyes on her, picking up on the hints of sadness behind her voice. Charlie wonders for a brief second if alcoholism is hereditary before shutting down that train of thought with another swig.

“We used to do this a lot when you didn’t wanna be home,” Tommy recalls. “Do you not want to be home?”

She drinks again just to fill in the time. She stares out of the window, watches as a couple walks hand in hand down the street.

“I just—” she says finally, “needed a break, I guess.”

It’s difficult to explain just how overwhelming it is to be around Alfred when he doesn’t know about what’s going on with her, when he doesn’t have a clue about how her world’s been turned upside down overnight. So she trails off and leaves it at that.

“Trouble in paradise?”

She chuckles at that, handing the bottle back to him. “Not really. It’s just Alfred— I feel like he expects too much of me, sometimes.” The whiskey has already started to work its magic through her body, and she has to resist the urge to ramble, to possibly overshare. “We all know I’m not exactly wife material.”

Tommy looks at her as if waiting for clarification.

“Come on,” she insists. “I’m not sweet and soft-spoken, kids don’t like me, and my cooking is terrible.”

“That’s not true; you make the best burnt potatoes I’ve ever tasted.”

She elbows him on the side playfully, but her smile is quick to fade away. She tries not to think of Alfred’s family’s snide remarks and judgmental looks.

“Hey,” Tommy’s voice brings her back to Earth. “He’s lucky to have you. He must know that.”

A blush creeps onto her cheeks, and she looks away in hopes that Tommy hasn’t noticed it, that he won’t mention it. The corners of her lips tug into a soft smile.

“Um,” she clears her throat. “How long will you be in London for?”

“A few more days. We have a meeting with the German gang in Birmingham next week. You should come.”

She nods. “I will.” She doesn’t know if the thought of returning to Birmingham makes her excited or nervous, so she’s quick to change the subject. “Maybe we can visit the Kew Gardens while you’re still here. It’s really nice out there, they have—”

“Missed you.”

It’s only two words, but they hit Charlie like an avalanche. Her gaze meets his, and the car feels smaller around them somehow, like it’s closing in, stealing all the air and pushing them together. There’s an ache building in her chest that she doesn’t know how to name, and she hasn’t realized just how much she’d longed to hear those words from him until he’s said it.

“So did I, Tommy.”

It feels like a confession, like she’s baring her soul to him. She shuffles a little so she can lean back against the seat, taking the bottle back into her hands. They sit there in their shared silence for a few minutes, breath and gaze their only real company as they take turns with the bottle, over half of the whiskey gone in a blink of an eye.

“Do you ever miss things how they used to be?” he asks, the words soft and fragile between them.

She releases a deep breath. Her head feels woozy and she can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or this conversation or just Tommy’s presence messing with all the sound, rational parts of her brain.

“I do,” she answers quietly. “But I feel like I’ve been missing that since before I ever left.”

“How so?”

Her next swig of the whiskey is even longer than the previous one, the liquid burning down her throat so bad she can’t help but grimace a little bit near the end. Her heart hammers against her ribcage and she wonders if Tommy’s is beating just as fast. She’d be able to tell, if only she were brave enough to lean in a little bit closer, to reach towards him and settle her hand onto the pulse point on the side of his neck.

“After you got back from France,” There’s a lump in Charlie’s throat, and she can’t seem to swallow past it. “I mean, we— things were different.”

Tommy’s quiet again, thinking. The once comfortable silence between them morphs into something filled with tension, and Charlie’s not entirely sure what kind of answer she’s hoping for.

“I felt different after I returned.” His voice is lower than normal when he finally speaks; scratchier, like the scrape of a blade over rock. “Like a different person, even. I didn’t think you needed me when I was like that.”

“I needed you more than ever.” She feels so small, so vulnerable here as night settles around them. She resists the urge to curl in closer to him, to rest her head on his chest and have his arm wrap around her shoulders like they used to do before everything changed.

He stares off at the windshield with bright, glassy eyes, drawing in a deep sigh.

“Well, you deserved someone better than the man I became.”

She raises an eyebrow in his direction, can’t resist the sudden anger and resentment that bubbles up her chest at that.

“So you thought sleeping with me and having me chase you around like an idiot for two years when you didn’t want anything with me was the best way to handle the situation?”

Charlie can feel him tense up beside her, all of the things they’ve both been bottling up for the past five years crowding around them. It feels near suffocating.

“I _did_ want you,” he says. “But I was confused. I’d just returned from war. You remember how I was.”

“You didn’t seem so confused when you married the white girl.”

And it’s out. She takes the bottle from Tommy and takes an angry swig, practically tossing it back in his hands as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“It wasn’t like that,” Tommy replies.

“I don’t know, wasn’t it?” She sinks lower into the seat, an arm resting over the windowsill so she doesn’t cross her arms over her chest like a fucking teenager. “Maybe you were embarrassed to be seen with me like that. Men like you don’t usually marry women who look like me.”

“It’s amazing, you know that? We’ve known each other for decades, and you can still say shit like that to me, like you don’t know me at all.”

She scoffs. “Right. I know you like to think you’re some big fucking mystery, Tommy, but you’re not. Not to me.”

“What about you, huh?” He turns to face her. “Lately, it’s like you’re the mystery.”

“You haven’t been around me in three years. I’ve changed.”

“Into this? You used to be sure of yourself. Independent. And now you’re marrying a man you don’t even want to be around.”

The words make her blood boil in her veins, and she holds herself back from yanking the bottle from his lips and tossing it out of the window.

“You know nothing at all about my relationship.”

“Do you love him?”

She huffs, eyes wide, hesitating for just a split second. “What kind of question is that?”

“A simple one. Do you love him or do you not?”

Who the fuck does he think he is? What makes him think he has the right to meddle into her relationship as if it concerns him? Those are just some of the things she wants to say to him, but the words get stuck in her throat, nothing coherent coming out for a moment.

“I’m marrying him. _Of course_ I love him.”

“More than you loved me?”

She’s actually speechless, unable to believe the audacity he has to ask her that. She thinks of Grace Shelby who she’s only met briefly, thinks about her heart being ripped into a million pieces as she’d received their wedding invitation in the mail. Charlie had burned it that same night, tears streaming down her face. The next time she’d heard about Grace, she’d been dead for well over a month.

She hopes Tommy felt just as hurt upon seeing her engagement ring yesterday. Somewhere deep down, she hopes she can hurt him even worse, right now.

“Yes,” the lie tumbles out of her, her voice full of venom. “More than I loved you.”

Tommy falters a little, perhaps not expecting an actual answer. She keeps on, the words just spilling out of her stupid fucking mouth and she wouldn’t be able to stop them if she tried.

“Nobody has ever treated me like he does. Touched me like does. He really loves me, Tom. And I didn’t know I could love someone this much before he came along. I didn’t know love could feel this good.”

They stay there, dark brown eyes staring right into blue ones. Charlie doesn’t let herself falter even for one second, until Tommy sets his shoulders and stares straight ahead, puts his mask back on.

“Very well.” Even his voice is different, more controlled. “I’ll take you home.”

It’s not the best idea to drive in his inebriated state, but Charlie’s willing to take the risk, if it means she’ll be home and away from him soon. She would be tempted to walk the rest of the way if she hadn’t drunk as much as she did.

They don’t speak again for the rest of the ride.


End file.
